Skulduggery Pleasant: Bad Boys
by CluelessLegend
Summary: Another introduction to the Skulduggery series, with a twisted plot.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Richard Brooks was bored. Bored didn't even cover what he was going through. He sat there- with his glazed eyes trying to focus on anything, anything at all.

He was at home, wondering what the point of it all was; characters flashed on his TV screen as he mindlessly thumbed his console.

He had scars and a bruise from when he'd fallen from his bike the day before which made for a great excuse to stay at home while his parents went to shop. Really, he thought, there wasn't much point to life- sticking around for 17 years had given him enough evidence to make that judgement. Anything anyone had invented or contributed to society means nothing- time would beat it all. As he saw it, humanity had been living on borrowed time and was eating into it more and more- the sheer odds of living things that were aware of themselves being created on a planet that could, by itself, sustain life was remarkable to say the least.

Everyone knew the universe was going to end- no one knew how, but death was inevitable- not even the grand scale of the universe could escape it. The way he saw it, if everyone could agree that the universe had a beginning, then it's practically impossible to deny that it had to have an end. Looking outside the window, the rain was starting to become slightly thunderous. As he thought more and more, the deeper into the void his mind fell. He could feel his emotions- anything that tied itself to humanity ebb away as he gradually went deeper into thought.

Desperate to avoid this train of thought, he let out a loud sigh as he heaved himself off the dusty couch to fetch the juice box from the fridge.

The juice box was empty. Great. Just great.

Opening the cupboard, he pulled out his cereal box and some milk.


	2. Chapter 2

The trees outside, now swooning at the rhythm of the rain, stretched out their branches, yearning for any spot of sunlight. The weather outside looked merciless, ready to tear into anyone or anything that wasn't prepared for it. It was becoming late- his parents hadn't returned yet. Out of sheer irritation and for anything to distract him, he sat down with his cereal and switched the television to a news channel.

The local news narrated by the clay-faced people fell on deaf ears as he pondered why his parents hadn't come back. A few words caught his attention: weather, government, austerity followed by breaking, then news, then accident.

Accident? Accidents were becoming common these days, another sign of overcrowding. The more people reproduce, the more chances of something like this happening- it was inevitable really. Imperceptible, but inevitable, like a python slowly choking its prey. Probably wouldn't have happened if the driver kept their eyes open: he couldn't care less.

"…This just in, the identities of the victims have been identified as one Henry Brooks and one Rose Brooks from the wreckage…", chattered the news presenters.

What?

Eyes glued to the screen; Richard started grinning, then laughing in sheer disbelief.

It had to be a sick joke.

There was no way.

It couldn't be.

He waited and waited for something, anything to pop up from the screen, or knock on his door to claim ownership of the prank. Eleven minutes, an eternity to Richard, passed without any incident.

The colour of his face now completely drained, his hands started shaking violently. A hellish anger flooded his veins. Rage and malice took hold as he clenched his fists, enough to draw blood from them with his nails. His face contorted as he screamed in horror as the news finally hit home. He desperately clawed at his own hair, trying to rip it out before curling up into ball and bawling. Tears gathered in a small pool in front of him and his clothes dripped with sweat and tears as if they too couldn't take the loss. Why? Why me? Why me of all people? Why? WHY?

He seethed with contempt: he stood up and ran.

He bolted out of his house and into the rain.

Everything became a blur as he ran full pelt down the street.

All sound was snuffed out by the downpour and all vision of anything, lost.

Panting, he dropped to his knees as if to pray to the God he knew didn't exist. Out of the corner of his eyes darted a shadow, one that seemed to move at an impossible speed. He snapped his head towards it, only to be replied by the light fog that had seemingly warped itself around the figure, toying with the silhouette and hiding those undeserving of seeing it. He was imagining things of course, he must be. As he drew deeper and deeper breaths, he felt the air rush out of his lungs and realised he was choking- no, suffocating? What? Outside? The smudge of black neared him and he felt more and more lightheaded. A blackness squeezed his vision narrower and narrower, until the void embraced him.

"What… are… yo-…"


	3. Chapter 3

**As a writer's note, you have no idea how much your reviews mean to me: all the reviews I've gotten really go a long way to helping me to keep writing on this series (I plan to reply to all reviews- but I can't reply to guest reviews as the system doesn't let me). Please do keep the reviews incoming and your initial reactions coming. I don't care if you have just a sentence to say or "thank you" or a harsh criticism of my work- I'd appreciate it all the same! Thanks to MickeyRaider and AshleyMistic for being the first followers and promoting my work on their respective work too! Apologies for the delay in my writing, I have an irregular upload schedule partly because of exams and partly because I don't want to compromise on the quality of the writing as I move forwards- if you follow me though, you'll be seeing when I update it I think, so do that if you want! Without any further delay, here's the next part. **

What are you? That single thought woke him up in an instant. Where the hell am I? Who was that?

He found himself staring at a ceiling that looked mouldy, green spots and a sicky, black hue wrestled their way onto the otherwise pale white surface: now a shadow of its former glory. He was lying on an old, yet comfortable sofa- it was surprisingly in good condition, and stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the rest of the room. A quick glance around told him everything- he was in the den of an evil man, who was probably plotting a kidnapping or finding a way to torture him. Rags, which one could mistake for a tramp's outfit, were being used as curtains to hide the morning rays with varying degrees of success. All fatigue from the previous night's running had left his bones thankfully. Now to get out of this typical kidnapper's hole...

Funnily enough, he hadn't been handcuffed to anything, which was unusual to say the least. Richard thought that maybe, just maybe, he could creep past the weirdo who was keeping him here by sneaking- he'd done it enough around his parents to become quite a professional at it. His parents. A jolt of blinding pain and a throbbing pierced his brain like a spear. The memory of his own bloodcurdling scream was enough to jolt him to reality. He had to get out of this place. Otherwise he'd be meeting his parents sooner than he'd like to. Edging the door-knob ever so slightly, he opened the door to a single minutiae of a degree to get some perspective.

He peered down a smallish corridor to find a dead-end on his left and a door at the end of the room on the right. That was the ticket to freedom. He crept on the creaking floorboards, using his ankles to soften the landing of his footsteps. Approaching ever closer, he peeked around the corner of the open room to be greeted with a window left open, and another pair of excrement-coloured curtains tucked away and bound tightly. Glancing at the left, he saw the figure again and gasped quietly.

It was him.

He'd abducted him from the street.

The weird man.

Man?

He felt his chest thump like crazy. Flight or fight? No, this was definitely flight. Definitely.

The criminal was wearing a black fedora that looked too expensive to belong here. No, the whole outfit was too rich to belong here. It rocked a black leather trench coat, with a black pair of trousers and the backside of polished black shoes for sure. It seemed to be at a stove doing something, probably making meth crystals or something. What was the deal with the knock-off batman anyways? Someone rich like it probably didn't even need him, why had he kidnapped him? The hell? Was this person a psychopath? Ah forget the questions, Richard thought, he had to get out of there, otherwise it might just decide against his existence: killing someone here probably wouldn't even be a problem for this monster.

Now reduced to a crawl, he dragged his arms and legs over the disgusting floor. Putting his face near little ants and wood louse was the least of his concerns though as he got ever so close to the exit door. His grubby hands reached for the door like the famous Michelangelo painting. He could smell the outside now. The petrichor wafted into his nose like the promise of a natural, safe and bliss life.

"Poached or fried?"

Richard's eyes widened. He'd been caught.

"Please don't kill me", he whimpered, "Please, do you want money? I have money, look-"

"Really? Do I look like I need your money?", the figure retorted, "Seriously? Now what was it? Poached or fried?"

Richard knew this person was deluded for sure now. He could probably barrel it to the door: it could be done for sure. No matter how quick its reaction time would be, he'd be the faster one out of that door. In the daylight, he could get some strangers and convince them to help him as he ran and screamed, it'd be easy.

"Ummmm-", Richard spouted as he hauled himself onto his feet, "I would-", and then he ran. He ran the half metre that was left between him and the door. In that flash he knew something was wrong, he could feel it: he had seen the hat but not the figure's hair, or its neck, or its hands, or its skin. What he'd ignored was a small, yet definite reflection of his own ugly countenance staring back at himself like a mirror on the figure's pale head. What?

As his hand reached for the door-knob of freedom, the figure blurred away at an impossible speed from the corner of his eye and teleported to between his sweaty palm and the knob. How? How? HOW?

"Young man", boomed the voice now above his head, "you're definitely not getting eggs now."

Richard craned his head upwards to be met with a skull.

Two empty eye sockets stared into his soul.

Richard gulped.


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm so sorry for this irregular upload schedule and massive delay. Thank you to MickeyRaider, Cyanide-Princess, and random girl49583 for putting my story in your favourites. I'll try and be more reliable with uploads, but it can't be helped. As always, do support me by writing a review or anything like that. I've also hit over 250 views on the story TOTAL! Thank you SO MUCH to all of you readers for reading my work! With that, it's time to get back to the story…**

"Relax kid, I just want to talk to you", the skull murmured.

"You're a SKELETON!", Richard wheezed.

"I get that a lot you wouldn't be-"

"How is this possible?"

"Magic."

"How doesn't everyone in the world know?"

"Magic."

"How do you talk?"

"Magic."

"How do you eat? And if you say magic one more time I'll -"

"Mag- oh actually I don't."

"You're irritating."

"I know."

His teeth-lined jaw glistened in what could only be caught as a fleeting grin. The two pockets of void almost sparkled with mischievous flames as Richard stared back. Now properly observing the skeleton, he could see the faint cracks that snuck their way down his jaw and forehead, telling of past battles and wars fought. Although his physical face, if he could call it that, didn't have any features that could express themselves, but the way he stood almost blossomed with a kind of self-confidence that wasn't naïve or arrogant, but earned. Even as the skeleton stared right back at him, in all its lifelessness, Richard could say that it was anything but. From a comical jet-black fedora to the polished leather oxford shoes there wasn't anything to scoff at: a crisp and ironed three-piece suit seemed to fit him from any and every angle like a suit of armour from the Kingsmen movies. An odd, but remarkable feature was a neatly etched skull on the middle of his spotless tie as if it were mocking death itself. Something like that wouldn't be mass sold- so Richard reasoned that his tailor knew he was a skeleton and had a keen sense of humour too.

"Come on- ", the skeleton started.

"Yeah no I'm good", Richard retorted, "this is the part where you invite me to a SPECIAL x-men type club and tell me I'm special or my blood's special or I'm the chosen one right? Right? Because now is NOT the time for that."

"Well actually no. But before that, let's get introductions out of the way. I'm Skulduggery Pleasant."

The skeleton put out his hand and Richard shook it. The hand felt very much like a skeleton's hands under his gloves and had an almost hostile, cold surface to them. But in no way did it feel brittle or unfriendly, but rather like shaking the hand of a long-forgotten friend.

"You letting go?"

"Oh yeah sorry, I'm Richard Brooks."


End file.
